


City Sleeps

by mechamedes



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Helpful Wade Wilson, M/M, One Shot, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 05:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18005132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechamedes/pseuds/mechamedes
Summary: There’s a bubbling stir in the air. Below, through the pouring rain, the neon sign of a Chinese-American restaurant flickers dully. People bustle in and out with smiles on their round, well-fed faces and left-overs swaying by their hips in white plastic “Thank You” bags. Somewhere, down three blocks, a driver honks his horn impatiently and complains about the weather to his wife in the seat beside him. Everyone is blissfully unaware.





	City Sleeps

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I've been stalking the Spideypool tags for a long time now and I've been trying my damn best to write something. Here it finally is! Sad and fluffy at the same time! Don't worry, I'll be back to give you all plenty of other juicy things with these two. I hope.
> 
> And, to clarify, yes, this Peter _is_ older. Mid-twenties. Personally, for me, he's a hodge-podge of PS4 and comics Peter (odd choice, I know). Wade is classic Wade. Comics/Reynolds, whatever.
> 
> With this author's note finally out of the way, I hope you enjoy this fic!

There’s a bubbling stir in the air. Below, through the pouring rain, the neon sign of a Chinese-American restaurant flickers dully. People bustle in and out with smiles on their round, well-fed faces and left-overs swaying by their hips in white plastic “Thank You” bags. Somewhere, down three blocks, a driver honks his horn impatiently and complains about the weather to his wife in the seat beside him. Everyone is blissfully unaware.

Peter hangs his legs over the edge of the building just across from the restaurant and he holds his face in his hands. The tears are coming, he knows that. The child’s last emotions flash in his mind’s eye just another moment and he’s sobbing before he even has a chance to process it. He’s been in the hero business for a few years. He knows not everyone can be saved, but when it’s a frightened child, everything gets thrown out the window.

He knows a fine duality sways in the grasp of a hero, and try as he might, someone will always die. Pretentious as the thought might be, Peter can’t help but feel to be a resounding failure at the prospect of a _child_ , an innocent mind harboring great potential, dying unfairly.

“Webs?”

Over the sound of the drumming rain, Wade’s voice rolls in like a cloud and settles on Peter’s mind in a thick blanket. Hoarse but gentle. No comedy, no jokes. Peter sniffles and knows the inside of his mask is wet with tears and snot now, but he still lifts his head and is thankful for the anonymity in the moment. “Hey.” His own voice startles him, weak and a little broken. Like the personification of holding a sizzling, dead match in your hand, bending it until it snaps just slightly, and then you toy with it. Splintered and thin, Peter’s cursing himself for sounding so crushed in front of the mercenary.

As dumb as people try to make the older man out to be, Peter knows he just isn’t. Storming off after the fire department arrived to put out the blaze was enough to tell even the most brain-dead that something was wrong. He can hide and stifle his tears all he wants, but Peter knows Wade can _tell_. And it hurts a little.

Wade sits down next to him, maybe a little too close, and Peter watches the rain run off his leather suit in thin rivulets. It rolls down Peter’s spandex in trails, maybe a drop drips off his masked chin, but the water fails to cling to the older man’s larger frame. The lights from down below cast up at them in a rainbow of colors. It’s almost mesmerizing. Peter doesn’t know why he’s fixating on this, but it’s anything better than thinking about the child’s scream… her round, watery eyes. The explosion.

His heart’s pinching again, his shoulders shaking as another bout of crying readies itself.

Damn it.

“Spidey… hey…”

And fuck it, because Peter throws himself into Wade’s arms, nearly knocking the both of them off the building (does he care at this point?) and lets out a choked sob. Despite the cold rain, Wade’s large and warm arms wrapping around him—almost instinctively—grounds him a little as he cries. The stifling lack of air in the mask becomes too much, and Peter can’t give a shit about the mask either, because he leans back and almost tears it off, letting out a strangled moan of pain.

Wade makes to look away, but he’s drawn back by the sight of Peter’s hazel eyes, puffy and bloodshot, wincing against the biting rain that’s coming down in a roaring drizzle now; the hot redness in his cheeks; and he can’t stop looking at his goddamn _face_. It’s not the time or place, but even when the hero’s crying, he’s even more gorgeous than the mental image Wade had tried to conjure up from spared glances at his mouth when they ate together.

He pulls Peter in, pressing his head against his broad chest. “Shhh…” Wade strokes a glove through his messy brown hair, light and dark in all the right lighting, and bites his own lip. Peter screams weakly against his chest, wrapping his arms around the mercenary and nearly climbing into his lap. The wrecked feeling washing off Peter causes Wade’s heart to nearly stop. _He feels like an utter failure. Him. Spider-Man. The greatest superhero alive._

“Not a… not a kid, Wade. Why did it—why her? We could’ve saved her if I was just—why wasn’t I faster? Why didn’t I notice the bombs? We-we could’ve saved a little girl’s life, Wade…” Peter blubbers, and he knows he’s disgusting because there’s snot running down his lips and all over Wade’s suit and he’s _sorry_ but he can’t stop seeing her round face. Her dark hair, singed, and her final scream for “Mommy” before the explosives detonated. All because they had been late. Late. Fucking late.

“Spidey—“

“Peter! Please, anything… just… Peter…” he explodes, a fresh wave of stinging tears rolling down his dirty, hot cheeks. Peter clings tighter to Wade, like some sort of koala hung from a tree, and feels his fingers digging into Wade’s back. He doesn’t really want to hear Spidey, or Webs, or Spider-Man. No, because Spider-Man failed. It’s just Peter Parker again. The one who deals with Spider-Man’s fuck-ups when the night’s over.

“P-Pete…” Wade’s speechless. A gorgeous face and a pretty name? No. No, not the time. “Peter, it’s okay.” Wade can’t help but feel tears prick at his own eyes, but he wills them back, because Spider-Man, _Peter_ , needs him.

Peter sniffles, his eyes burning from the mix of tears and rain. Below, someone shouts another hearty “Goodnight!” to the restaurant owners and a cab skitters away with a bad exhaust pipe. The cold rain’s getting to him now, causing sharp shudders to run down his spine and his teeth to clatter. Wade’s large and stable around him, rocking slightly and stroking the back of his head. “It’s not alright. I-I failed.”

“It _will_ be okay, Pete. You didn’t fail, you can’t fail. You’re amazing. We…” Wade’s never been good at this kind of talk. Comforting, at least. He smooths his glove down the back of Peter’s soaking hair, and grips the back of his neck gently. “We tried with everything we had.” He pulls Peter back, cupping his face in both his hands to get a good look. His face is shining and wet with tears, snot, and rain. He’s a flush, tumid mess. “Maximum effort?” Wade whispers, falling back on weak humor to diffuse the emotion, thick like smog, in the air.

Peter can’t smile. He stares at Wade, trying to discern the face behind the mask he’s seen only a few times. God, but he wants to smile because Wade is so terrible at this yet so wonderful at the same time. His heart swells in his chest and he feels another sob rising out of him, but instead it comes out as a defeated splutter and closes his eyes, gripping Wade’s wrists with shaking fingers.

“Her—her face, Wade.”

“I know, baby boy. I know.” The nickname usually slips out in more light-hearted moments, but it feels right on Wade’s tongue and right in Peter’s ears. Comforting.

“She was crying s-so loudly. Screaming. God, we were a few _feet_ away, why couldn’t we get there in time?”

Peter feels spent, the rain dying from a harsh drizzle to nothing but lightly peppering wetness. His throat’s destroyed from sobbing. His voice is more than a slightly broken matchstick. Someone snapped it, crushed the burnt end, and then snapped the already broken matchstick into thousands of small, splinter-y pieces.

Wade runs his thumbs over Peter’s cheeks, heart shattering at the sight of him, absolutely torn. “We tried. That’s what matters, Peter. We were going to save her.”

“But we didn’t.”

A silence passes between them. The restaurant below is closing up. Just below, a man complains to his wife about the rain just outside their apartment door. Keys jingle absently.

Wade cards his fingers through Peter’s sopping hair, trying to smooth the wet, sweaty knots. He wipes Peter’s face gently. What exactly can he say? He’s killed enough people to the point where death is just as commonplace as stubbing one’s toe. He feels more sorrow for Peter’s brokenness than anything. “We didn’t. We couldn’t. We tried, Peter. Stop hurting yourself over it, please, baby boy. It… hurts me.”

Peter looks up sharply. His hazel eyes glimmer with something, shimmery with tears that dare to come out but can’t because it’s exhausting him to continue crying. The best he can possibly do is dryly splutter or mumble incoherently into Wade’s chest again.

Wade opens his mouth to speak once more.

“Can you please take off your mask, Wade?”

The mercenary can’t help but let out an involuntary scoff. “I don’t think that’s going to help you through this.”

Peter places his hands over Wade’s, closing his eyes but seeing the girl, and opening them to stare at the familiar mask again. “Just do it for me.” His voice is nothing but a breathy scratch.

Wade looks lost in thought. He finally takes his hands away from Peter’s face with a reluctance so heavy it looks like he’s going to drop his own arms. The mask comes off, and the scarred visage Peter’s seen a few times looks back at him. The blue eyes swim, hairless brows furrowed. He wraps himself around Wade’s neck without a second thought, burying his face into the crook of the mercenary’s neck, inhaling his gunpowder and leather soap scent.

After a quiet moment of Wade rubbing circles into Peter’s back, Pete mumbles something into Wade’s suit. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I still am.”

“Like hell you’ll be, Pete.”

Peter pulls away, wiping his eyes and sniffling harshly. He pushes back his wet, greasy hair. The neon sign flickers, and the litany of colors shining up at them fades for a moment. Peter knows he can’t forget the young girl’s face, but Wade’s honesty swirls around in his mind. He tried. He failed. He’s failed so many times it’s hard to count, but he just hasn’t failed in a while. He’s saved almost everybody he’s come across. It hurts more when you haven’t been exposed to it in so long.

The image of the girl hums softly in the back of Peter’s mind when Wade cups his cheek again, smiling when the younger man leans into the touch.

“M’cold.”

Wade huffs. “I know. You’re going to get sick, on top of everything that’s already happened to you. Daddy-pool’s got you, though.”

Peter gasps when Wade scoops him up suddenly, holding him all bridal style. He stands with a sharp grunt, then grins down at Peter.

“If it’ll help, Palace de Wilson has got an expensive, big couch we can cuddle on and talk. If you gotta cry again, I’ll listen. If you just wanna put on some shitty rom-coms and laugh it all away, we can do that, too.” Wade starts walking over the rooftop, down to the fire escape. Peter can’t help but smile. A little. He’s drifting off between sleep and some loose form of consciousness.

“Alright…” he mumbles, voice still rough ‘round the edges.

Wade pauses. “What about your mask, Pete?”

Peter sighs, knowing Wade has both their masks in one of his hands. He clings to Wade tighter. “Just hide m’face.”

Street lights flicker gently against the soft mist of rain falling over New York. In the distance, late night taxi drivers groan to their customers about superhero vigilantes. Wade Wilson talks Peter Parker into a light sleep in his arms as they walk down a dimly lit street, the neon light of a restaurant sign falling over them.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated, as I'm a man who lives on feedback. Thank you for reading—and hopefully—enjoying.


End file.
